


Make A Myth Of Us

by rory_the_dragon



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: M/M, Negotiation of Dom/sub relationship, Semi-Public Sex, bdsm undertones, beginning relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2734343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bjorn does not lie to himself. He watched his father lie to himself, to his mother, to him, when he was still a boy, and promised he would never fall into that. He is not lying to himself now. He knows what the look in Erlendur’s eyes is, knows the panting in Erlendur’s chest that matches Bjorn’s own, knows the grin on Erlendur’s mouth. He might not have known until tonight, but now he wants to hear it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make A Myth Of Us

 

“You are a complicated man, Bjorn Lothbrok.”

Bjorn turns. The moon is swelling full in the night sky above, surely a good omen, and it lights up the carved features of Erlendur sitting on one of the man felled trees that have been serving the camp as seats. Bjorn has not spoken much to the son of King Horik, he is not sure anyone has; the other boy, for they _are_ still both boys no matter the bands they wear upon their wrists or the swords they hold in their hands, keeps his own counsel. Though Bjorn has felt the prince’s eyes on him every now and then, intense, the way they are now.

He looks contemplative, his sword across his lap and his hands stilled mid-way through sharpening the blade. Lagertha has told Bjorn of the way men get before a battle, making their peace with the Gods, and it looks like even Erlendur is not exempt.

Bjorn himself has spent the evening by the shore, watching it crash and roar with all of Thor’s might, and felt Valhalla at his fingertips.

“This is not true,” Bjorn replies, because it is the night before his first battle, he can’t sleep, and he doesn’t trust Erlendur or his father but right now they are both just warriors, the beating-heart cores of themselves in the calm before the storm. “I am quite simple really.”

Bjorn has little complexities. Not like his father, who schemes, plans moves and countermoves like breathing. Bjorn has never been Ragnar. Or even Erlendur himself, for Bjorn has seen the same gleam that shines in his father’s eyes in Erlendur’s.

“I have never met a warrior who possesses a gentle heart,” Erlendur corrects him, standing, and the dying embers of the fire beside them sends flickers across his face as he steps closer, sliding away his sword and resting his fingers on the hilt. There is still blood in his hair and when he smiles, he smiles with the teeth of a wolf. Or maybe it is just the firelight playing tricks upon Bjorn’s eyes. “It is strange to me.”

Bjorn shrugs, his eyes tracking Erlendur’s steps. “My heart is not so gentle.”

It is true; Bjorn has raided, killed when he has had to, dreamt up a thousand different ways of killing the man who beat his mother and called it marriage. He does not have a gentle heart. Not the way Erlendur seems to believe he does.

“Today I murdered an envoy sent for peace, on my father’s orders.” Erlendur’s voice is casual and he’s still stepping closer. His eyes are trained on Bjorn’s face, his lips parted ever so slightly, but he isn’t looking for Bjorn’s surprise and Bjorn doesn’t give it. He knows Erlendur was a part of that ambush, _led_ that ambush. Bjorn saw him return to camp on a bloodlust high, beautiful and terrible in his exultant grin. “And I _enjoyed_ it.”

“You think I do not?”

Erlendur shakes his head, and the smile on his face is not a smile at all. “You enjoy the rush, Bjorn Lothbrok. The glory, your strength. The chance for Valhalla. Today I took husbands from wives, fathers from children, and I was glad of it.” _Because they took my brother, they took Ari_ , goes unsaid.

“That is vengeance. It will fade.” Bjorn has seen it fade.

A bare foot away from Bjorn, Erlendur stops. A blonde eyebrow rises, challenging, at odds with the shadows Bjorn can see in his pale blue eyes. “Will it?”

Bjorn doesn’t have an answer for him. When Gyda died all those years ago, Bjorn had only plague to rage against, the Gods to curse. There are times when he still curses them, the days where he feels Gyda’s breath in the wind, her laughter in his ear. If Gyda’s killer were a living, breathing person, Bjorn would not stop til they were dead.

When he doesn’t answer, Erlendur laughs. It’s not a pretty sound. “Will you fight with me, Bjorn Lothbrok?” He asks, inches away, tilting his head back to look at Bjorn through the half moons of dusted eyelashes. The corner of his mouth lifts, baring a few of his teeth, and Bjorn’s own mouth quirks in response, uninstructed.

“Of course,” He nods, and Erlendur smiles.

They walk together in silence, out of the pre-battle hum of the camp and towards the crashing of the sea. The grass is damp with sea-mist and it glistens in the moonlight, the same as Erlendur’s sword does, Bjorn’s axe. Standing as he does, sword held out before him and teeth in a grin, Bjorn can almost imagine what the people in the ambush must have felt upon seeing Erlendur.

He laughs, feels the thrill of anticipation zing up his spine, and then the clang of metal meeting metal fills the open air. Beneath their connected weapons, Erlendur grins back at him, before twisting his sword in his hands and breaking the hold. They break, circle, and Bjorn matches Erlendur’s steps carefully, the way Lagertha taught him. Rollo might have been teaching him to kill, but Bjorn learnt war at a shield-maiden’s knee.

Erlendur is fast, frantic energy brimming behind carefully controlled moves, but Bjorn is stronger and it’s an even match as they make their way back and forth across the grass in attacks and parries. Bjorn lands a hit with the flat side of his axe, takes one to his side, and growls at the smug expression on Erlendur’s face when he lands it. Erlendur laughs, snaps his teeth, and it isn’t the firelight this time; Erlendur looks wolfish.

Bjorn doesn’t think he’s seen the other boy smile like this before.

Then there’s a foot caught around his ankle and Bjorn’s back hits the grass. He blinks into the stars before there’s the cool touch of a blade at his throat and Erlendur knelt over him. “Dead.” His mouth is red and slick as he pants, grinning, over Bjorn.

“But I took you with me.” If Bjorn weren’t breathing so heavily, he would laugh at the blank look of confusion on Erlendur’s face before he presses the point of his axe into his abdomen. He does laugh at the sudden scowl on Erlendur’s face that makes the other boy look so much younger.

Erlendur drops his head between the line of his shoulders, blonde curls obscuring his face. “You will live through tomorrow, Bjorn Lothbrok,” He says, before lifting his eyes to meet Bjorn’s, sword falling away. “I am glad.”

“You are?” Bjorn frowns up at the other boy, before throwing his axe to the side and grasping at Erlendur’s wrists. “Why are you glad?” And he flips them, presses Erlendur into the ground. “Because we are allies?”

Bjorn does not lie to himself. He watched his father lie to himself, to his mother, to him, when he was still a boy, and promised he would never fall into that. He is not lying to himself now. He knows what the look in Erlendur’s eyes is, knows the panting in Erlendur’s chest that matches Bjorn’s own, knows the grin on Erlendur’s mouth. He might not have known until tonight, but now he wants to hear it.

"Do not be stupid." Erlendur's wrists flex against Bjorn's hands and when he can't break free, his eyes darken. It uncoils something warm in the pit of Bjorn's stomach, and he wants to hold Erlendur here until dawn rises.

Then there's a heel in the small of his back, pushing. But Erlendur does not seek to move them, gain the upper hand once more. Instead he uses the leverage to press up, hands still held against the grass by Bjorn's, and steal a kiss from Bjorn's mouth.

It's biting, teeth tugging at his bottom lip, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and Erlendur kisses like he fights. To win.

Bjorn has lain with boys and girls and others alike - if the Gods make no distinction, why should he? - but none have been like Erlendur. He has lain with girls in his stepfather's court, fucked gentle farmboys who tilled his stepfather's fields, but Erlendur is neither of those. He kisses Bjorn like he's conquering something and Bjorn lets him, opens his mouth to Erlendur's invasion and when he feels the tremors of exhaustion shudder through the other boy, he cups the back of his head, holding him there with fingers threaded through his curls, and pushes back. Like this is the grass they were just sparring against all over again, a fearsome dance that neither want to stop.

Fingers find the back of Bjorn's neck and Erlendur hangs on like he's hanging off a cliff-face, holding himself up, clinging to Bjorn. His other wrist is still pinned.

Erlendur's mouth is hot and wet and panting and his kiss becomes a series of them, quick and pressing and searching, and Bjorn catches every one, tries to hold into it before Erlendur is pulling away again, pressing back in again. He can feel the desperate lines of Erlendur's body, his screwn up eyes, the nails biting into the back of Bjorn's neck, and pulls back.

"What-" Erlendur blinks, frowning, and Bjorn moves the hand at his neck to meet it's brother, pinning them together above Erlendur's head. He moves slowly, silently, laying Erlendur back into the grass, and when he presses down to kiss him again he does so just as slow, just as silent.

"This does not have to be a fight," He says when Erlendur's body had gone lax against his. He kisses him again, softer, and Erlendur makes a small noise that sounds like surprise. "You are you, and I am me, and that is it."

Erlendur's breath comes out shaky across Bjorn's lips. His eyes are black. He nods, once, and Bjorn wonders how experienced a son of a king can be in this area when he can't for even a second let his guard down like he has now, for Bjorn.

He wants to ask but holds his tongue and instead ducks his head to edge his teeth along the tendons of Erlendur's neck, nipping and tugging before soothing with his tongue. Above him Erlendur bares his neck further to his touch with a quiet sound, his body rolling against Bjorn's, and Bjorn hums in approval.

They've both grown hard and Bjorn can feel Erlendur against him, no longer shaking with tension but shaking with _want_ , and he's not sure that he's not shaking too. He releases Erlendur's wrists and begins tugging at the laces of his shirt, revealing more and more expanses of pale flesh to suck and bite his way across, as fingers find his breeches, fiddling with the ties.

When he looks up, Erlendur's face is full of concentration, and he has to move to kiss it away. He swallow Erlendur's breath, and the whimper that follows, and it's hard to imagine finding anything more worthwhile than coaxing that sound out again and again and again.

They undress swiftly, gooseflesh rising in the chill air, and Bjorn can hear his own heart beating. He's sure he can hear Erlendur's, too, keeping the same frantic beat.

Bjorn is not a man to deny himself the things he wants; he learnt that from his father. But he's never acted without thinking before. He doesn't know what this could do to the alliance between their families, and right now he doesn't care. He could die tomorrow and right now he wants to be buried inside Erlendur and forget about everything but the two of them and the way their bodies move.

Erlendur reaches out, and Bjorn watches as the other boy takes his hand and lifts it, closing his mouth around two of his calloused fingers. Bjorn's breath hitches at the sight of Erlendur's pretty pink mouth and hollowed cheeks, and he groans at the sensation of Erlendur's lightning fast tongue flickering around his fingertips, his knuckles. Then, with a sharp bite to the taller of the two, Erlendur spits them out, messy, a small string of saliva bridging the gap, and Bjorn has to move and catch it with his mouth, suck at Erlendur's tongue and tap at his thigh with his hand.

Erlendur brings his knees up wordlessly and Bjorn has never been with someone so receptive. He'd wonder about the difference between Erlendur's usual contempt for any authority that isn't his father, and how he obeys Bjorn's every silent command, if he weren't pressing a slick finger against Erlendur and watching his eyes turn to half-slits.

Erlendur's hips circle, pushing harshly back against Bjorn's finger in expectation, and Bjorn stills. "I do not wish to hurt you."

"Bjorn." It is the first time Erlendur has said his first name only, and his eyes flick back open to look Bjorn in the eyes. "We are using my spit," He points out, and he smiles a little in laughter. It is the nicest smile Bjorn has ever seen on his face.

"I know this. I still do not wish to hurt you."

"Then I am very lucky to have such a gentle lover, with his gentle heart," Erlendur says, and it would sound mocking except for how it doesn't. "But I want it to hurt. I want to feel you on the battlefield tomorrow, take your strength for my own. Will you allow me this?"

In answer, Bjorn presses one spit-slick finger into the tight heat of Erlender until his eyes roll back and it tears a guttural sound out of him, a low " _Yes_ ," as his hands fly out and grip at Bjorn's shoulders. Bjorn will have bruises tomorrow. He is glad of it.

He drops his head between them, watching his finger move inside Erlendur’s body, curling and searching for the sensitive spot inside of him to turn his sharp whines and little gasps into cries. Bjorn wants to hear him cry out. He has heard more of Erlendur’s voice this night than he has since the boy arrived in Kattegat, heard it in so many different ways and tasted it against his lips. He wants this too, wants all of it.

Maybe he is more like his father than he thought.

He eases a second finger inside and Erlendur’s head falls back. His body is almost arched off the grass, into Bjorn’s, and his breathing is coming hot and quick when Bjorn looks back up to him. “E-enough,” He murmurs, lifting his head again with what seems to be great difficulty. Bjorn’s fingers twist inside of him and he rocks back on them even as he repeats. “Enough.” He noses at the crease of Bjorn’s neck, bites down insistently. “I do not want a third.”

Erlendur is still tight around Bjorn’s fingers, just this side of _too_ tight, so Bjorn moves to catch Erlendur’s mouth, suckle on his bottom lip, as his fingers continue working in and out of the other boy’s body, opening him further with twists and curls, before he acquiesces. His fingers leave Erlendur’s body with an obscene sound, and Erlendur falls back against the ground like he’s been struck down, mouth open and eyes barely.

His chest is flushed and working hard, his cheek pressed into the ground beneath them, and there’s mud in his hair. He looks _ruined,_ and he lifts his own hand to his mouth, spits into it again. His hand is warm and wet as it circles around Bjorn’s cock, and Bjorn groans, the breath rushing out of him. Erlendur laughs breathily and Bjorn drops kisses at his collarbone at the sound.

Then he’s lining up and rolling into Erlendur with a slow movement that _drags_ and Erlendur’s laugh is cut off by a sharp inhale. Bjorn stops, only to have Erlendur’s heels digging into the small of his back, his nails digging in above, urging him on.

Bjorn keeps his slow pace, allowing Erlendur the burn he craves but being careful, and by the time he’s buried to the hilt, he’s panting with the effort of holding himself back and Erlendur is all but writhing beneath him. He pulls back just as slowly, testing, and Erlendur snaps open burning black eyes at him, need and want and frustration warring in his face. Bjorn doesn’t know why he ever thought the other boy was so closed off; He might not speak much, but his every emotion shows on his face like a book for Bjorn to peruse.

He doesn’t ask for Bjorn to go faster, takes the next slow push of Bjorn’s hips with a hiss and tightens his legs, holding Bjorn inside of him as he pushes up, pushes their forehead together, and they’re panting into each other’s mouths, blue eyes to blue. One hand fists in Bjorn’s hair, the other still digging into his back, and Bjorn ducks in to press a clinging kiss to Erlendur’s mouth.

Erlendur makes another small noise against him, broken, and pulls Bjorn closer, running a series of open mouthed kisses across the line of Bjorn's cheek before tugging at his earlobe with his teeth. "Tomorrow," He growls, as Bjorn begins fucking him in earnest. "After this battle. I want you to fuck me on my hands and knees." And Bjorn can picture it, Erlendur bent over and waiting for him. The way he’d look on Bjorn’s furs, how he’d claw and grasp at them as Bjorn held onto his hips, bruised them until they looked like stars. "I want you to use the blood on your hands to open me up and I want you to _use_ me.” His voice is cracking on every thrust Bjorn buries inside of him, his blonde curls slick with sweat, his body shaking. “Is this acceptable?”

From where he’s buried in the crease of Erlendur’s neck, holding himself up on his forearms just barely, Bjorn bites at the side of Erlendur’s throat and slips, trips, one hand down between their bodies, circling Erlendur’s cock. “Yes,” He murmurs against him as he rolls the pad of his thumb over the head, picking up the wetness there and using it to stroke Erlendur towards his completion. “This is acceptable.”

And he twists his hand, the way he knows he himself likes it, and watches in something close to awe as Erlendur’s head tips back, his throat works silently, and his eyes open wide to the stars above them. His hands grip at Bjorn’s shoulder-blades like he’s holding onto his life.

He comes between them, wet and warm across Bjorn’s hand, his stomach, his whole body coiling tight and _shuddering_. He looks as though he’s been hit with lightning, and it rockets through him to Bjorn. Bjorn’s hips stammer, the heat of his body and Erlendur’s all bleeding into the pit of his stomach before it _pulses_ and explodes inside of him. He pushes himself as deeply into Erlendur as possible as he comes, anchoring himself in a storm, and finally gasps Erlendur’s name. Like a prayer. Like an offering.

Bjorn feels teeth at his neck, leaving a purple bruise of his name in the flesh there, and slumps a little as the lightning running through him fizzles into blackness.

With a groan, he eases himself free of Erlendur’s body and collapses on his back in the grass next to the other boy, turning to press a series of tired kisses into Erlendur’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Erlendur asks, his voice raspy and his eyes ever so slightly unfocused, as Bjorn slides an arm around his waist, continuing his litter of kisses. He doesn’t want to stop touching Erlendur, not now.

“Holding you.” Bjorn waits for the assertion that Erlendur does not need, does not _want_ to be held, but it does not come. Instead, the other boy just looks confused, before he sits up. Bjorn pushes up onto his elbows, watching the moonlight streak across Erlendur’s muddied back.

“I want to swim,” Erlendur says, and stands. There is mud in his ruined hair, earth clinging to his every corner, and he turns to look down at Bjorn with seed on his stomach and bruised lips. Bjorn does not think he has ever seen anything more beautiful.

Bjorn follows him to the seas edge, into the shallows, and out into the deeper water. When Erlendur stops, they are far from the shore.

“I have never-” Erlendur starts, before stopping, biting at his bottom lip. “I am the son of a king. I do not take orders. I do not submit. And yet with you... I do not understand.” He shakes his head as if clearing it.

Bjorn reaches out and runs his hand down his arm until he finds his wrist, the sure to be bruises there, and Erlendur flicks his eyes to meet his. “You mean this?” He moves his hand further, entwines their fingers.

Erlendur nods. “You held me down. I resisted, but...”

“You liked it?” Bjorn offers. “Needed it?”

“I should not need such things.” Erlendur frowns but does not dispute Bjorn’s guess. “I am a prince.”

“Which is all the more reason to need such things,” Bjorn moves closer. “It is not uncommon. People need different things, prince or no prince.” Facing Bjorn as he is, Erlendur is lit up by the moonlight, his face lost in thought. Bjorn wraps an arm around him, pulls him in, and Erlendur looks up to him, questioning. “I need to take care of people. I always have. And,” He smiles. “I liked taking care of you.”

“Taking care of me?”

“Giving you what you need.”

Erlendur’s eyes crinkle, his mouth turning up in a half smile, and his fingers play with the chain around Bjorn’s neck. “And this is what I need, Bjorn Lothbrok?”

“It could be.” Bjorn lifts his free hand from the water, places it at Erlendur’s jaw, his cheek, fingers reaching into his curls. Erlendur’s eyes close to it, lean in. “If you want.”

Erlendur is silent for a long moment. All Bjorn can hear is the waves lapping around them and the rise and fall of their breathing. “If we both live through tomorrow,” He says, voice steady. “I think I would like that.”

Something settles in Bjorn’s chest, something he didn’t know was displaced. He smiles, and ducks to kiss Erlendur, firm and soft. Erlendur’s hands find his hair, tug just for a second, before becoming gentle, and he’s sure he feels the other boy smile into the kiss.

When they get back to shore, laughter growing serious as the moon passes over them, night soon to become day, peace soon to become war, Bjorn watches as Erlendur crouches where they lay together and scoops up a small handful of earth.

He places it in his pocket.

 


End file.
